Since it is a Holy Day, that Day of St. Pigskin, I shall entertain you with a short tale of why I shall ever narrow my eyes at the mention or sight of the celebrated Brett Favre.
When I was dating my not-yet ex-Husband, I felt relieved to find myself as one of the Elite Few Women Who Aren’t Ignored During Football Season. My guy, though quite manly in all other areas, lacked the gene most men are born with- that of hunkering down in front of the tube every Sunday afternoon and Monday night to bellow and squall at the little men running around, while swigging beer and snarfing down finger foods. There was an occasional lapse in attention toward me when Green Bay played the Vikes, but overall, Sundays were spent in less asinine ways.
A few years ago, Minnesota picked up a new quarterback. You may have heard of this player, though at the time, the only thing I really knew about him was that he had made a cameo appearance in the movie There’s Something About Mary, before he looked like a rotting corpse. His name was Brett Favre. Immediately, there was embroilment among fans.
Being from Minnesota, I have, from adolescence, been aware of the rivalry between the Green Bay Packers and the Minnesota Vikings. When Brett got picked up by the Vikes, Green Bay fans were enraged. How could he do that?! Is there so little honor in the sport of football, that a star quarterback could play for a rival team?! I suppose a giant paycheck and another chance at glory may have had something to do with it/My not-yet ex was thrilled. “I guess now I might be into football, since our team won’t suck so bad,” he announced. I guess that should have given me a clue….
It seemed, then that Brett Favre was EVERYWHERE. TV started airing Wrangler jean ads, thinking that “Yes, of course men will believe their asses will look like Brett’s if they buy our crapper jeans.” and JC Penney couldn’t keep in enough #4 jerseys. Perhaps I was over-reacting at that point, but I began to resent being told, “Just wait ’til the game is done, honey.” I believe it had more to do with the fact that while my hubby was recovering from back surgery, I was working 70+ to pay the bills, and Sunday was the only day I was home. Yes, I am very selfish.
The beginning of the end was when my birthday fell on a Monday. What the hell was I thinking, being born exactly 28 years before the game to end all games- the Vikes (with Brett Favre) vs. the Packers? My hubby informed me that I had a choice. I could celebrate my birthday the next day, (even though I had taken my birthday off from work and would be working 17 hrs the next day) or I could go with and watch the “super game” at my brother-in-law’s. Now, I have since been told that men are completely oblivious at times, but this was pretty much the most dim-witted thing a significant other could say to an over-worked histrionic. When the ultimatum was made to me, I still had hope in my heart that I wasn’t married to a complete nincompoop.
Sadly, my birthday came around, and I spent the entire day alone. Not to say that there were no chums that were breaking down my door to celebrate with me, but the fact that my hubby was so retarded as to go off and do whatever on MY day, when I wanted to spend it with him, had me moping on the couch, chowing down on Hardee’s, watching Sex and the City in my undies. It just so happened that he got plastered at his bro’s house during the game, so didn’t even come home that night. His reasoning was, “I told you I wouldn’t be around on your birthday.”
There were other reasons why I got divorced as well, but that night I realized that if I didn’t come first over a middle-aged Mississippian in a purple shirt, things were very sub-standard. In this day and age of VCRs and Tivos, (we had both) I never should have been left alone on my birthday. Yes, I need attention, and I do not apologize for it. I like to think that if Brett Favre had known that his one of his last losing seasons would have disassembled my marriage, he woulda just stayed home grilling gators.